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Alessia smiles, but her eyes dart to mine in a silent plea for help.
“Alessia is Albanian, where religion was outlawed for many years. But her people are Catholic. As high Anglicans, I’m sure that won’t be an issue.”
“We are a broad church, my lord, and welcoming of all faiths.”
“Of course, I’ll be there,” Alessia says.
Danny enters and places a tray with cups and saucers on the table in front of Alessia. She gives her a nod and then leaves.
“Tea, Father Trewin?” Alessia asks.
“Yes, please, Countess.”
If the use of her title disconcerts Alessia, she gives nothing away. She takes the teapot and pours a cup, using the tea strainer that Danny has provided, and hands the cup and saucer with a small teaspoon to Father Trewin. She offers him milk and sugar, pours some for me, and gives me the cup and saucer.
Hiding my smile, I accept it. She’s learned how to serve tea. Properly. “Thank you, my love.” She gives me an impish smile before serving herself, and I know, that she knows, that I know that she’s putting her social etiquette training into full force.
She’s not put a foot wrong.
Would I expect anything less?
She’s amazing. And adorable.
Even more so because I know she’s done this for me.
And maybe for herself.
I turn my attention to our guest, who is fully conscious of Alessia and me grinning inanely at each other. His cheeks become rosier as he looks from me to my wife.
Yeah. We’re in love.
Deal with it.
Which reminds me… “Father Trewin, I had hoped that Alessia and I could marry again in the UK as we’re now back home, but I’ve been reliably informed that it’s not possible. Therefore, I was hoping we could have a blessing at the church. Give us a chance to celebrate here. Preferably in the summer?”
“That’s a splendid idea. Of course we can do that. I’d be delighted.”
Alessia escorts Father Trewin back to his moped. He is positively blossoming under her attention, and I think she has a new fan. I head to the study to make some notes on the gin project, to find someone to sell Kit’s car collection, and to read up on Michael’s new passion—regenerative farming.
It’s dusk when I look up from the computer. My head is buzzing from what I’ve learned about sustainable agriculture. Leaning back in my chair, I take in my surroundings to ease the strain on my eyes.
I’ve not really sat here since Kit died. There was that time when Oliver talked me through the burglary at Chelsea Embankment, and before then, when I visited the Hall for the first time in my capacity as earl, I sat here and mostly talked to the estate workers in turn.
A faint melody drifts through the hallways from the music room; Alessia is at the piano, no doubt practising her audition pieces. As I try to make out what she’s playing, my gaze wanders over the desk that was once my brother’s and once my father’s. There are mementos that belonged to both of them: my father’s Georgian tea caddy where he kept paper clips and such nonsense, two vintage Matchbox Bugattis from the 1960s—they were my father’s, but I remember he used to let Kit play with them. He and Kit shared a passion for cars.
They were close.
And here I am, selling his prized collection.
Kit. I’m sorry, mate.
I open the tea caddy, more out of nostalgia than curiosity, trying to capture some essence of my beloved father.
There is a small set of keys sitting on top of a slightly larger key, which I know is for the safe.
The safe!
Maybe this is where Kit’s missing laptop, phone, and journal might be.
Grabbing the key, I stand and open the large wooden built-in cupboard that once served as the serving platter closet, where the old Cartwright & Sons safe is situated. The larger key fits the lock, and I open it, revealing Kit’s laptop.
But no phone or journal.
There are also various papers that I don’t have the energy to explore right now. I take out his laptop and place it on the desk.
Perhaps his journal is in a drawer.
I try one of the drawers, but it’s locked.
A key from the small bunch opens it, and as I slowly tug the drawer open—there, in all its glory, is Kit’s battered, brown leather journal and his dead iPhone.
I ignore the phone and laptop because they’re probably password protected, so I’ll need expert help to hack them.
It’s the journal that will answer my questions.
My scalp tenses as I take it out—clasped with reverence between both hands—and place it on top of his laptop. I stare at it for a full minute before I decide to invade his privacy. Slowly, with a slight tremor in my hand, I unwind the leather tie ragged from overuse and pull the covers apart. It opens on the last entry.
